


New Plague

by chaosintheavenue



Category: Fallout (Video Games)
Genre: Blood, Cardiopulmonary Resuscitation, Fever Dreams, Flashbacks, Gen, Graphic Depictions of Illness, Hallucinations, I don't know how to tag it but there are Covid similarities unfortunately, Illnesses, Major Illness, Medical Procedures, Needles, New Plague, PTSD, Pandemics, Some religious elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-11
Updated: 2020-08-22
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:53:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 10,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25842373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chaosintheavenue/pseuds/chaosintheavenue
Summary: A family's quiet, peaceful, settled life is thrown into turmoil when a strange sickness strikes. An utterly self-indulgent thing I wrote last year based on Fallout Van Buren lore, and have finally decided to let out of its cage.
Comments: 5
Kudos: 8





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> First of all, I'd like to quickly clarify here that this fic is intense in terms of emotional and medical content, and I strongly recommend that anyone who has doubts about content of that nature doesn't read any further.
> 
> Thanks to my Tumblr mutuals for gently prodding me towards putting this out despite initially having a lot of reservations, and a HUGE thank you to everyone who takes the time to read my work! Anyone who's interested can find out more about my Fallout OCs and New Plague lore on my Tumblr (also chaosintheavenue).

James:

'The blue flu', they called it. I used to wonder why. Now I wish I didn't have to know.

JJ has always been stubborn, so it was to be expected that it took Catherine pointing out that he looked incredibly pale for him to admit that he'd been feeling 'off', as he worded it, for a day or two. With his 'secret' out, he immediately suggested that he go to bed early to rest.

'Rest', not sleep.

Somehow noticing for the first time that he had dark circles under both eyes and generally did not look well at all, I quickly agreed that extra sleep was exactly what he needed, but a growing sense of unease appeared in my mind. Hearing him pause mid-staircase to catch his breath only added to the feeling that something was terribly wrong, but foolish denial was beginning to set in, and I managed to convince myself that he was probably just nauseous, or in a little pain, or both. Either way, he would escape it when he fell asleep...

I will be eternally thankful that I was warned so intensely and frequently about the severity of JJ's mysterious illness. Barely five minutes after he had decided to rest for the night, I could no longer fight the almost compulsive urge to check on him.

When I did, I found him lying haphazardly across our bed (in the closest room to the stairs), already completely unresponsive. I remember seeing his hair stuck to his forehead with sweat and approaching him to see if he had a fever (intending to arrange an urgent visit to either Angela or the Drebbers if so), but as I got closer, I realised that he... that _his lips were turning blue_ -

"J?!" I was at his side within a heartbeat, knowing that he didn't have any to spare. He was... _not_ in a good state. His lips were indeed blue, his skin almost grey, his chest motionless, " _JJ_?! Can you hear me?! B-Breathe, son. **_Catherine_**! J, you need to _breathe_..."

He didn't, of course. Fighting to swallow my panic, I pressed my trembling fingers to his neck over and over, searching for a pulse. For the longest few seconds, nothing- then I could have cried with relief as I finally felt a slight fluttering.

_Alive_. Dying, perhaps, but still alive. Silently praying that there was still a chance, I scooped up his lolling head and frantically tried to give him mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. The total lack of response to having his lungs inflated so forcefully was... unsettling.

"Come on, breathe! J, _please_ , you- you... **_come on_**!"

Two artificial breaths in, Catherine appeared- and froze in the doorway as she took in the horrific scene.

"Is he...?"

" _Get a doctor_ , **_now_** ," I snapped to snap her out of it, wasting a lungful of precious air that hadn't been mine to waste. She almost threw herself down the stairs and out of the front door... right before I attempted to breathe for my son once more and was met with the _taste of blood_. Frothy blood was now bubbling up into his mouth from his throat.

_New Plague_...

"Oh, J..." I gasped involuntarily. Tears pricked my eyes for the first time as I allowed myself to momentarily consider the fact that... that we were on the verge of losing our son... "It's going to be okay, I promise. Hold on."

At this point, my frenzied prayers consisted solely of begging for JJ's life to be spared. Please, he's only fifteen. He's barely had a chance to experience life on Earth. I already miss him unbearably, and I'm still holding him in my arms.

After ten breaths, his mouth was definitely starting to look less blue and more purple. That was a good sign, wasn't it? But the blood that must have been filling his lungs and his continued failure to breathe for himself couldn't have heralded good news...

"P-Please fight it, sweetheart. Stay with me..."

I broke away briefly to check his pulse again. The little flutters were even fainter this time around. His life force itself seemed to be fading. Terrified that his heart was about to give up, I increased the rate of his breaths and occasionally interspersed them with a few chest pumps. Nothing seemed to help.

"Come on, son, _breathe_..." at the time, I didn't have the mental clarity to realise that he would still have to fend off a very nasty case of New Plague if he did come back. To me, if he took even one shallow breath, then all would have been right in the world.

...

Through a haze of tears and panic, I donate yet more secondhand oxygen to JJ. He may be in Angela's care now, but taking this duty leaves her and Ty free to examine his lungs and gather necessary equipment and medications respectively.

"B-Breathe, baby," I plead breathlessly, allowing the blood-tinged froth to drip from my mouth. I barely notice the taste any more. Catherine's anguished _sobbing_ from just outside is harder to ignore...

"He's barely getting any air. Tip his head _right_ back and try again."

I obey, blowing as hard as I can several times, and helplessly praying for my boy's life to be spared all the while. Not looking optimistic at all, Angela repositions her stethoscope on the other side of his chest. Another breath. Another. And another. Hearing him 'exhale' is reassuring on some deep instinctive level, even though I know that it means nothing in this situation.

Angela shakes her head grimly, "There's too much congestion... _Ty, I need suction_!"

He runs in with a bizarre contraption underneath his arm, which she sets up on a table. I fight to keep my boy breathing somewhat in the meantime, blowing so hard that my own lungs burn in protest and almost subconsciously tapping his cheek in a futile attempt to rouse him. Hopeful images of him suddenly coughing and spluttering back at me dart across my mind, tormenting me. In reality, there's nothing to show for my work; JJ looks less alive with each passing moment, and he hasn't attempted to move or breathe once since I found him. Desperate to find light where there is apparently none, I tell myself that the odds must be stacked in his favour at least slightly. He's young, strong, healthy... so if _anyone_ can pull through such an ordeal, he can. That's right, isn't it?

"You should probably look away. This won't be pretty," Angela warns me, before ramming a large tube straight down JJ's throat. With the press of a button, the device begins to greedily slurp out the awful foam like an oversized straw. Surely he should be gagging and throwing up like there's no tomorrow- but he remains unnaturally still and expressionless throughout.

"Hang in there, J," Ty mutters, his hand patting my son's shoulder as if to encourage him. My own hands have clamped themselves over my mouth in utter horror and disbelief. JJ has always been in perfect health, aside from the occasional sprain or sniffle. For him to lie before me sprawled across an operating table, limbs dangling, lips defiantly purple despite my best efforts, heart monitor bleeping crazily, cool to the touch, grey, mottled, _dying_... it's simply absurd.

Angela seems to push the tube in deeper, and the pink bubbles are replaced with _bright red liquid_. Ty curses involuntarily. My world freezes.

"My God..." she gasps, dropping her calm act for a second, "You- James, I need you outside. Go clean your mouth out. **_Now_**."

The unholy gurgling noises as the suction machine catches air and liquid simultaneously cause my eyes to sting and my stomach to flip. As she momentarily removes the tube, drops of scarlet drip from its edges and dribble down his cheek. I don't move. I will _not_ leave my child whilst he's... drowning in blood...

"There's a bathroom this way. Let her work," Ty takes hold of my arm from behind, and my knees give way as he attempts to lead me to the door.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, another chapter already! I did a lot of medical research for these early chapters, but some things have been Fallout-ified, and I apologise if any details are off.

James:

"He's al-ready dead, I know he's d-dead..." Catherine wails, clutching my arm desperately. Not knowing how to respond, I quickly give her the most reassuring hug I can manage, then step closer to the glass separating us from the scene of the ongoing battle for JJ's life. The poor boy still isn't breathing, and it's been... frankly, I don't want to know how long it's been.

"Show me some fight, kid," Angela continues to force air into him with the bag contraption, whilst Ty runs around grabbing whatever piece of equipment she demands. She listens anxiously to her patient's heart for what seems like much too long (granted, the frantic pinging from the heart monitor doesn't sound very healthy, but... she hasn't given him a breath in at least ten seconds...), then commands Ty yet again, "Another Stim. Hurry."

This time, Ty rushes out through the door beside us and heads for a cupboard. I don't think I've ever seen him with such a grave expression.

"Do you think there's any chance...?" I can't help but ask as he passes.

"I... I don't know. She's _really_ trying, I can tell you that. I think-" a new sound from the monitor cuts him off. His head snaps up in alarm.

" ** _Ty_**!" his wife yells with renewed urgency. He sprints back inside, Stimpak in hand, and Angela injects it somewhere inbetween JJ's neck and shoulder. I've heard of them being used that way, but... I can't remember the context that would warrant it.

"I'm losing his pulse. Get the paddles."

Those words terrify me like nothing I've heard today (and that's saying something). My mind drags me back kicking and screaming to the first aid and survival segment of my ancient mission preparation. Not breathing is bad enough, of course, but if his heartbeat stops too, then- _oh goodness_.

"What's happening? J-James?!" in her panic, Catherine almost looks around for herself. I try to reply, but it seems that the only part of my body that isn't paralysed by fear is my hammering heart. On the other side of the glass, Angela is now hammering away at J's chest with her fist. This is it, I know it. This is how we lose him. My little boy, my JJ...

The world outside my head blurs past in slow motion as _his_ short life flashes before my eyes. All at once, I tear up in awe as I listen to the thrumming of his tiny heart from within his mother, hold him in my arms as a squirming bundle of newborn and try to comprehend that he is _my child_ , laughingly attempt to convince him that bringing yet more worms into the house is a bad idea, struggle to maintain a straight face as his first gunshot knocks him backwards- and let out a breath that I hadn't realised that I was holding when the bleeping settles down with one last thump right as Ty enters with the dreaded shock paddles. _Thank you, Lord_...

"He... he's fine..." I falsely promise Catherine, "He's g-going to be fine..."

...

The door doesn't open again until Angela finally emerges, "He's as stable as he's going to get-"

"So... he's breathing?"

The look that Angela gives me says more than enough before she opens her mouth, "No, not really. The machines are handling that for now. Can't blame him, honestly. We drained a pint of blood out of each lung, and (Catherine covers her mouth in simultaneous shock and horror upon hearing this lovely fact)- I mean, he _is_ getting oxygen, if that's what you meant."

"Do you know what did this to him?" I have to put a name to this evil. I already know the most likely diagnosis, but I haven't mentioned it yet in case it sways Angela's judgement. I'd prefer it to be almost _anything_ else...

"Finding the culprit hasn't exactly been my priority, but... I think we all know that this looks a lot like New Plague (my stomach sinks as she speaks my theory into existence). _Could_ be rad poisoning, though. He hasn't been out of town in the last week or so, has he?"

"No, not at all."

"Either would be concerning, then. Could he have been up in the old ruins, maybe?"

"N-No, there's no reason he'd go there-"

"Will he b-be o-kay...?" Catherine chokes out, squeezing me even harder. Angela sighs apologetically.

"I hope so. I really, really do. He's a good kid. I'll do everything I can, I swear, but... whatever this is has hit him _hard_ , and it's far from over. He has one heck of a fight ahead of him."

"Can I see him?"

She opens the door and unexpectedly beckons me through, "Yes, of course. He needs you."

Catherine releases me and takes a seat, then buries her face in her hands and breaks down in tears yet again. She refused to even look through the window, knowing that seeing her son so unwell would only traumatise her further.

I try to push the underlying suspicion that Angela is doing this because she doesn't expect JJ to make it to the back of my mind as I enter and hurry to his side. His sticker-covered chest is moving in an unnaturally jerky manner as the machine forces him to breathe. There's a slight bruise developing where she essentially punched his heart back to life. His ashen skin is ice cold (but somehow he's still sweating profusely), and I can barely feel a pulse. And worst of all, there are patches of drying pink foam around his lips, droplets of fresh blood clinging to the inside of the ridged tube thrust down his throat, and a crimson pool on the table next to his head joined to his mouth by a dark, sticky trail down his cheek...

Angela lowers her head, "James, I... I'm trying to be gentle here, but if there's anything you want to say to him, now might be the time."

"JJ... I'm here, love. I'm right here. C-Can you hear me? We love you so, _so_ much, sweetheart. You're such a g-good boy... I know you don't feel well, but you need to _fight_ , okay? Fight for us," my eyes burn as I ruffle his messy, sweat-drenched hair in an attempt to soothe him. His exhausted body is so floppy that each upward rub pulls one of his eyes open slightly, revealing nothing but haunting white inside. Merely seeing my little boy in this condition breaks my heart. I'd give anything for the opportunity to take his place and bear this horrific sickness for him, "D-Do you think he can hear me?"

"Honestly, there's no way to tell for sure, but if he can, then he just needs to hear your voice more than anything. I had to drug him up to his eyeballs to keep his lungs from spasming up again (the image that this conjures is... less than welcome), so he's _completely_ out of it. He definitely isn't feeling any pain, but hearing's usually the last thing to go."

"Can I...?" I pull a rag from my pocket and hold it close to my baby's mouth to indicate wiping.

"Of course!"

I carefully remove most of the blood and mop some of the sweat from his brow, but the cloth is fully saturated before I'd consider him remotely peaceful-looking, "Can you feel that, J? I'm just cleaning your face up a bit. You're going to b-be okay, baby. You can fight this. I _know_ you can. You... you're being s-so brave..."

Angela yanks my cloth from my hand and drops it into a container full of various other medical and non-medical items that must have also touched his potentially toxic blood. So has my mouth, of course, but that doesn't matter at all whilst my child is fighting for his life with all of his strength. I... I hope that he has enough to fall back on...

As if summoned by my thoughts, the lingering metallic taste in my mouth makes itself known in its full glory, turning my stomach. I find something else to focus on before I vomit- unfortunately, something that's no more comforting, "If we lose the generators, will he die?"

"Nope. If we lose power- which we shouldn't- then we just go back to this (she lifts the oxygen mask bag thing). I've got him, I promise."

Thinking about the situation in more practical terms adds to my heartache. J was helping out with the generators only this week. And now he's entirely dependent on their help just to _breathe_. I idly wonder if he inserted any of the fusion cores that are keeping him alive. A perfect circle...

Whilst I'm lost in my mind, she passes a Geiger probe up and down the length of his unconscious body a few times, then places it directly against his throat and chest. I wait in anticipation of intense crackling that never comes. Never before have I been so disappointed to learn that my boy isn't dangerously irradiated. I just pray that he doesn't have the _New Plague_.

"Right, we can rule that out..." she seems to be talking to herself as she fills a syringe and inserts it without hesitation into the vein on the inside of JJ's elbow, forcing me to look away, "This is just epinephrine. Adrenaline, yeah? It's the only thing keeping his lungs open. Don't look so suspicious."

Panic rises. To me, being given a shot of adrenaline is synonymous with severe injuries sustained defending the wall. Amputated limbs, perhaps, or gunshot wounds to vital organs. Those people... don't tend to leave the clinic.

"There's n-no chance, is there...?" I try to whisper, my voice cracking in strange places. How could this be happening?!

"James..." Angela stops and looks directly into my streaming eyes, "His chances are... less than great, but I wouldn't waste time and equipment on a hopeless case. What _you_ did gave him a chance. Whatever happens, you did the right thing. Remember that, okay?"

She decides to listen to his chest before I can formulate a reply. Despite her disturbing words, her level of focus further reassures me that she hasn't given up on him just yet. Or... is she concentrating so hard because there's something wrong? She was one step away from shocking his heart not too long ago, I remind myself...

"Is... how is he?"

"In better shape than he was, but that isn't saying much. Just remember that he's strong, and he's fighting..."


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, thank you so much for taking the time to read my ramblings! I really appreciate it :)
> 
> I know these last few chapters have been intense as anything! This one's the last before the vibes change...

James:

Emotionally and spiritually drained by the day's awful experiences, I collapse down into a conveniently-placed chair and hold my head in my hands. Angela pats my shoulder as if it could possibly calm me whilst my son's life hangs in the balance. When I return to reality, the sky outside is entirely black, and she is in the lab-like portion of the room dipping a probe attached to her terminal into a vial of blood.

"Any progress?" Ty's booming voice echoes from the doorway.

"He's... stable. Barely," his wife mutters, "Is Mordecai-?"

"On his way."

Angela's terminal screen fills with text, and-

"I thought so," she whispers, sounding legitimately upset, "Positive for Limit 115. It's New Plague. Poor little guy..."

The world crashes down on top of me again (if it's even possible for that to happ en more than once). From what I've read and heard, all signs point to New Plague having been _deliberately created in some sort of lab to cause maximum suffering_. Pre-War, it wiped out a good chunk of the US population. And no treatment was ever developed... so what do we do now?!

I didn't realise that I asked aloud until Angela answered, "I'll do absolutely _everything_ in my power to help him fight it off. You... I think you should pray..."

...

For hours, I (and when she felt able to join me, Catherine too) just sat by our baby's bedside, praying for him over and over, watching his heart monitor vigilantly (and reporting the slightest apparent abnormality to Angela, who would always assure us that whatever we had spotted was 'normal, considering', and that we only needed to panic if she did. She couldn't quite crush our concerns, though. If his heart seemed to miss a beat, ours continued to follow suit...), trying- and failing- to smooth back his matted hair to make him look just a little more like his usual self, telling him how brave and strong he was and how much we loved and needed him at every opportunity, and asking Angela if he was any closer to regaining consciousness whenever she examined him. Neither of us dared to acknowledge that there was a chance that he would never wake...

That awful possibility found other ways to demand my attention, though. Every so often, Angela would flick a light across JJ's eyes, initially seeming neither overly disturbed nor reassured by the results. Catherine didn't seem to understand what was being tested for, thankfully. I don't think she would have been physically capable of carrying that burden...

"James, do you know how long he wasn't breathing for?" Angela asked carefully during one such light test. I wonder if she specifically waited for Catherine to leave.

"I... I think about five minutes. Maybe ten. Why?!"

"He's not quite responding as well as I'd like. Did you actually see him stop breathing, then?"

I shook my head, taking hold of J's hand in an attempt to reassure and calm both of us. He was merely _lukewarm_ , despite the new blood- my own- being pumped into his veins, "N-No, I found him in bed-"

"I need to know the _whole_ time before you got him here, yeah? Do you have any idea how long it might have been before you found him?"

My stomach began to knot. The truth was that it must have been another five or ten minutes. But I couldn't tell her that, or it would become real. Exactly how long was too long?! "It c-can't have been m-more than... two or three minutes?"

"But he was completely blue?"

I nodded, my eyes stinging at the memory.

"Longer than that, then..." she whispered under her breath, now pulling open his left eye, "Do you know what I'm looking for here?"

Nod, "Please, please t-tell me he's going to b-be okay..."

"He should be, as long as he remembers how to breathe for himself soon. He's on a lot of meds, and I guess that could be dulling his responses a bit, but... I think you should try to prepare yourself for bad news- just in case. He-"

"Will... is there _d-damage_...?" I interrupt. As much as my heart hurts at even suggesting such a possibility, I _need_ to know. She sighs at length.

"Frankly, I don't think he's going to walk away _completely_ unscathed. I've already had to sacrifice his lungs to keep the brain intact (this truly horrifying mental image momentarily dashes all of my hopes and dreams for him, and I resign myself to the idea that my sweet, gentle, charming, eloquent young man will never be himself again). But his brain _is_ still ticking over. We won't know much more until he starts to wake up, and he really needs to stay under for now. At the same time... if it becomes clear over time that he isn't going to get better, I don't think he'd want us to keep him half-alive on life support..."

Her final words didn't fully process at the time. What did was the fact that JJ would be... _damaged_. For a long time after that conversation, I racked my mind for anything more that I could have done for him. Earlier that evening, the poor thing had had _every_ sign of internal bleeding that Angela had recently listed. What if we'd recognised those red flags and headed straight to the clinic? What if I'd remembered from the start that I had to tilt his head back and make sure that his chest was moving whilst I was breathing for him, rather than having to be told by Angela? Would a Stimpak have done him any good at that point? Should I have turned him face-down and pounded the fluid out of his lungs? Or simply grabbed him and made a run for the clinic right away? What if I hadn't tried to resist the little voice at the back of my head nagging me that all was not well in the first place? What if I hadn't been _insane_ enough to not rush straight to my child's side when he was struggling to breathe on the stairs?!

Unable to alter the past, I desperately attempted to alter the future, fighting to get through to my son- wherever he was- by any means necessary, and lead him back to consciousness. It quickly became apparent that he was far beyond the reach of words, but still, forcing myself to put on a gentle, optimistic and reassuring facade for him kept me clinging to hope up until J took his first shaky breath without the machine- his first in almost _six hours_. Before that point, I'd managed to hold myself together to an extent for the sake of my family. But seeing him take back control of his body after he'd appeared so lifeless for so long tipped me over the edge. Whilst sobbing into his limp, clammy hand, I truly grasped the gravity of what he'd endured- what we'd all endured (strangely enough, I was able to stop the tears in an instant when he then started coughing up blood...).

Once he was breathing again, everything else seemed to fall back into place. At one point, Angela shone her flashlight into his eyes as usual, and was rewarded with a blink and weak twitch of his head in the opposite direction to the light (her dramatic display of relief at this was... a little concerning. Had she really not expected him to regain even those most basic of abilities?). The next few hours were punctuated by coughs, twitches, and even very faint _whimpers_ if he was prodded too forcefully. Although he remained frighteningly pale, that awful grey tinge faded from his skin, and his pulse grew stronger and stronger under my fingers. Even more comforting was the later discovery that playing with his hair or stroking his arm whilst speaking close to his ear would occasionally elicit a slight eyelid flutter, especially if his name featured- but pleas for him to move his eyes again or squeeze a hand yielded no results, and he still wasn't waking up...

Until, suddenly, he did.

He didn't make it out alive because he was 'lucky', as Angela was so fond of repeating. He was _blessed_. He was _protected_. And most of all, he was _loved_.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Good morning, sleepyhead!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry there was a bit of a delay in putting this chapter up!
> 
> This is where the tone starts to change from the first few chapters, but just so you know, what I've published so far is actually my least favourite part haha. Coming up: less of the whole 'tunnel vision' focus on JJ's individual situation, and a bit more of the wider picture (and, um, more of the Covid similarities, I'm afraid...).

JJ:

Cold air on my face. Beeps. I feel... fuzzy...

I open my eyes, but the bright lights teach me just how painful a headache can be.

"Uh..."

Something near me moves very suddenly, forcing my eyes to open again. Oh... it's Dad. Looking- is he crying?!

"JJ, love, can you hear me?" he whispers, gently placing his cool hand on my head at the same time. Deep concern is written in every word he says and every crease of his face. _Why_ is he crying?!

"Dad...?"

This just makes matters much worse. He covers his eyes with the thumb and index finger of his free hand, whilst the fingers on my head stroke my hair.

"You're okay, you're okay. Oh, thank God..."

"Where's... Mom?" I think I've figured out what's wrong. It looks like we're in a clinic of some sort, so... is Mom hurt? Sick? Worse...?

"She's sleeping. She's just... a bit overwhelmed. You..." his eyes fill to the brim with tears again, "You scared us so much, sweetheart. You've been so very poorly..."

Wait, what? _Me_?! But... nothing's wrong with me. What?!

Then I spot the oxygen mask over my face, the tubes in my arm, the wires on my chest-

"Calm down. I know you're worried- believe me I know- but you're going to be fine."

"What... _happened_...?"

He pauses to collect himself.

"What's the last thing you remember?"

That's a good question. I struggle to wade through the hazy clouds filling my mind, "Uh... the table... and... and your bed. Couldn't really... breathe..."

His expression shifts into something close to _anger_ as he hears my last word, "Why didn't you say something?!"

"I... think I passed out..." making my voice somewhat audible is tiring and painful enough without the mask muffling it further, so I lift it away from my mouth to reply.

"No no no, don't do that. It's just oxygen, okay? You need it," Dad immediately presses it down again, looking even more worried for a moment, "Can you breathe properly now?"

I nod. Breathing hurts a little, but I can take it. In any case, it's nothing compared to the pounding in my skull...

"Good, good. How do you feel?"

"Just great..."

He smiles slightly at my tone, then his eyes glisten, "You have New Plague, sweetheart. You... almost _died_ in your sleep, and you... well, you've been sleeping it off for a little while. We weren't sure if you were going to wake up, but... here you are, I suppose..."

"Am I... okay?!"

"Not just yet, I don't think, but you will be. I... I'm _so_ proud of you..."

"Good morning, J!" I think that's Angela. I can't really tell. My head is spinning. She steps closer to peer down at me, "Or, should I say, welcome back. How are you feeling?"

" _Rough_..." I croak. Dad starts slowly running his fingers through my hair.

"Oh, kid, I know. You've had a _really_ rough night. You can go back to sleep soon if you're that uncomfortable, but I need to check your vitals first."

She proceeds to spend a _long_ time doing so, talking throughout- but thankfully not to me. The utter physical exhaustion is creeping into my mind as well, preventing me from fully focusing on her medical words, but I catch that I have fluid in my lungs. That can't be good.

"Am I g-going to die...?" I have to ask. I can't think of anything else. I'm only familiar with New Plague thanks to old newspaper articles that almost casually state that another _ten thousand_ people had died from it the previous day, and I'm fairly certain that healthy, not-dying lungs don't have fluid in them, but I... I'm not ready to go...

" _No_ , baby-" Dad tries.

"Absolutely not. I know this whole set-up must be pretty scary for you," Angela gestures vaguely to the machines and my wires, "But you don't really need any of it any more. It's just because... well, you gave us all quite the scare last night. I promise you're through the worst, so try to calm yourself down a bit, okay?"

"Yeah, okay..." aware that everyone can tell that I'm not very calm thanks to the beeping monitor, I try to take a deep breath in spite of everything- but then I realise that breathing hurts a _lot_ more than I thought- "Agh... ggh..."

"Hey, easy, easy. Can you show me where the pain is?"

More than a little irritated (I know that she probably saved my life not too long ago, but I feel lousy, I'm still dying, and I just don't want to be here. I just want my bed...), I point to my chest, head and throat in turn, surprised to feel the collar of my shirt still there when I get to the latter. But wait... how could I be wearing a shirt? I lift my aching head slightly to investigate, and- oh no. Why? _Why_?!

"What... what the heck... happened t-to my _shirt_?!"


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading my story! I hope you enjoy, or at least find it interesting. Feedback would be very appreciated!  
> (Yes, I'm going to thank you in every chapter note, because... really, thank you!)

James:

The dramatic improvement in JJ's condition was nothing short of miraculous. One moment I was struggling to digest the unwelcome fact that he had been without oxygen for so long that some degree of permanent damage seemed inevitable, and the next I was assuring him that the dark, saturated bloodstains in his favourite shirt could eventually be washed out if he was so adamant that he wanted to keep it (even though I wanted nothing more than to burn it, along with every other object that had been present during his near-death experience).

Initially, he seemed entirely well- if a little breathless, dazed and feverish. _Too_ well, I remember thinking. His young body was quickly overwhelmed again, however, and he was left dripping with sweat, wheezing, and apparently hallucinating. His mother was heartbroken to see him in such a state, and his failure to recognise her without being prompted by me didn't help in the slightest. Fortunately, the confusion lifted after a brief nap, allowing him to assure her that he was okay, demonstrate countless times that he could breathe without significant difficulty, ask a few hesitant questions about his condition (which I answered as reassuringly and conservatively as I could without lying. He certainly didn't need to hear the grim details...), and even request a drink of water. But still, the oasis of calm felt... temporary. The eye of the storm. Exhausted as I was, I couldn't bring myself to leave his side even to sleep, lest he be snatched away from us again.

...

" _JJ_! Oh boy, it's good to see you back on your feet! How are you?"

Gabriel Smith was by no means the first person to intercept us during what would otherwise have been a two minute walk home from the clinic (JJ's brush with death had clearly been the talk of the town... and rightly so), but at least his reaction was more justified than most. I distinctly recalled Gabriel dropping a bucket of water in shock as he watched me sprinting for the clinic like a madman, blood smeared around my mouth, my dying child's limp body in my arms, Catherine running alongside me trying to cradle his head and screaming that her baby was gone...

"Much better, thank you..." he offered, although his faint, croaky voice plainly showed the truth.

"Glad to hear it. I thought that..." his expression filled in the gap truthfully before he could think of any passable lies. _I thought that you were dead_... "That you'd be laid up for weeks. Months, even!"

"He's doing very well," I announced- for everyone's sake. But, as if on cue, J rested his head on my shoulder and started to lean on me more heavily as I spoke, "What's wrong?!"

"N-Nothing..."

I frantically tried to guess what might have been troubling him, "Are you dizzy? Can you breathe?"

"Dizzy," he mumbled, swaying. I suppose that's to be expected, since he must have lost a _lot_ of blood...

"Okay, okay. Let's just get you home, hey (an enthusiastic nod)? Do you think you can walk?"

"Yeah, just... hold me..."

The little interruption was in fact most welcome, giving us an excuse to hurry home without having to make conversation. By the time that we reached our destination, the poor thing could do nothing more than flop down exhausted onto the couch that Catherine had prepared for him, and within minutes he was fast asleep.

Needless to say, Catherine and I didn't sleep at all that night. The idea of J not being hooked up to any monitors was now more terrifying than comforting, so we monitored him instead. She was so anxious that she simply lay her head above his heart and listened for at least an hour, whilst I battled to keep his temperature down, checked every so often that he could be roused slightly with shoulder shakes and counted the seconds between his breaths in a strange ritual.

Then the nightmares started. With no warning, JJ would abruptly thrash around as if defending himself against an invisible assailant, yelling gibberish all the while in a manner scarily reminiscent of Jeremiah's episodes. We were highly relieved to discover that he could usually still be woken... and less relieved to discover that when woken, he was _petrified_ beyond any consolation. As soon as this initial terror wore off, he would be too drowsy to coherently describe what he was experiencing before nodding off again. And repeat. All. Night. Long. The logical part of my brain assured me that he was probably having incredibly vivid dreams as a consequence of his high fever, but I couldn't fully convince myself that he _wasn't_ fighting an invisible assailant...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To quickly clarify, because I've decided that I won't be adding any brand new information into this fic for at least a while (I don't want to 'pollute' it by drawing on my own pandemic experiences, if that makes sense)...  
> 1) James and JJ are both wearing face masks whilst walking home.  
> 2) JJ probably should not be walking around at this point, especially not in a public place!
> 
> Also, sorry that this chapter ends out of the blue a little bit. I originally wrote the thing as one huge block, and so there aren't always very good places to wrap up a chapter!


	6. Chapter 6

James:

"Why are you shivering, baby?" I can't help but ask, even though the boy in question is once again deeply asleep following the exhausting ordeal of sitting up slightly whilst I washed and combed his hair. He needs to sleep to recover, of course, but... seeing such a vibrant young man utterly stripped of his energy- by such an awful illness, no less- is both worrying and heartwrenching.

The issue at hand, I remind myself, is that JJ is shivering violently despite his skin being hot enough to fry an egg. Is that a symptom of New Plague in its own right? Angela's pamphlet makes no reference to shivering or shaking, but it similarly fails to mention the deathly pallor, the horribly swollen neck glands that feel as if they might burst through his skin, the tiny popped blood vessels in the whites of his eyes, the inability to eat, the listlessness...

As unpleasant as his current illness is, it pales in comparison to what he went through on Saturday night. Even attempting to imagine how he must have felt (both physically and emotionally) as he used the very last of his breath to stumble into our bedroom, probably longing for the cold drinks, cuddles and reading marathons that had filled the few days he had spent in that same bed with minor childhood illnesses, is _crushing_. I don't think I've fully processed just how serious his condition subsequently became yet- even after I spent goodness knows how long breathing into his bleeding lungs, tearfully pleading with him to live ('just one little breath, sweetheart, _please_...') and begging my Father not to let my little boy die in my arms.

J's sleeping face blurs out of focus as my eyes fill up. Yes, he's still very, _very_ poorly, and yes, his inexplicable shuddering is concerning, but I need to keep things in perspective. He is warm (far too warm, but that's preferable to the alternative), he is breathing on his own, his heart is pumping, and I can be reasonably confident that I will see him open his eyes and hear his voice again in the near future. It is truly a blessing that those luxuries have been returned to us after his harrowing ordeal, and I... I cannot begin to express how grateful I am. _Never_ again will I let him go anywhere or fall asleep without reminding him just how loved he is.

The rhythm of JJ's breathing seems to falter again, grabbing my attention in an instant. I lean down closer to him and position my ear over his mouth to listen properly, gently rubbing up and down on his chest (it _might_ help him to regulate his breaths, I suppose...) all the while. From across the room, Catherine's face hardens as she attempts to read mine for reassurance.

"Honey... he's going to be okay, isn't he?" she stares down at me after a tense few moments of focused silence.

"I think so," is all I dare to answer with. This doesn't seem to comfort her, so I add, "Just give him time. He's been through a lot."

He certainly has. Reciting that awful list to myself punches yet another hole through my shattered heart. Many years ago, someone saw that as a goal. Someone _intended_ for this to happen. Someone _designed_ this monstrosity. And, judging by what I’ve read recently, JJ is not going to be the only one in town to be forced to weather its storm. I... I can't even begin to comprehend...

...

"Please don't worry so much. I'm okay now. Really," orders the boy with New Plague, a temperature of 104 that refuses to budge, the most dramatically bloodshot eyes I have ever seen, and a recent medical history that has moved even strangers to tears (let alone his _parents_ ). Granted, I don't believe anybody has explicitly told him just how grim the situation looked, or that there was a real chance that his organs might have been damaged beyond repair from oxygen deprivation (in fact, we don't know for sure that they haven't been, but seeing him conscious and acting normally has quashed my main concern in that department), but he must know that he wouldn't have woken up attached to a heart monitor with his tearful father thanking the Lord that he was conscious if he hadn't been seriously ill...

"I don't think you understand how badly you scared us. Believe me, I am _not_ exaggerating when I say that we almost lost you. I know it must be annoying, being... hovered over, but please just humour us."

"I'm not _annoyed_ , it's just... maybe I could sleep in my bed tonight. Then you can actually get some rest-" he continues, apparently lost in his thoughts. That's my boy. Of course he's more concerned about our sleep than his own illness.

" _No_ ," I snap back, far more forcefully than I intended. His look of astonishment might be comical in different circumstances, "I mean... that would _not_ help, I assure you. You can sleep wherever you like, but not alone. You're still very ill, and-"

"So are you!"

He's technically correct. Unintentionally ingesting his infected blood doesn't seem to have done wonders for my own health, but that hardly compares to his ordeal. Besides, New Plague tends to hit harder the younger you are, I've heard, " _Not_ as ill as you."

"...And do you want to get this bad?"

I'm almost certain that he's trying to insinuate that I'm literally worrying myself sick, but... his tone is _very_ dark if that's the case...

"Was that a threat?!" I laugh, and then so does he, breaking the tension, "Stop trying to argue, young man. Let's see if you decide that you need us tonight, shall we?"


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm ba-ack!  
> I'm not sure how many more chapters are left, but we're now just over halfway through the Word document (there's notes to myself and blank space at the bottom, though, so no promises on the remaining length!). This is only the first in a series, though...

James:

As I'd predicted, letting the boy sleep on his own would have been disastrous). His terrifying (for all involved) dreams returned with a vengeance after allowing him to nap peacefully during the day. The previous night, we had eventually devised a system of shaking him awake whenever he began to twitch and grimace, then keeping him alert enough to hear our voices comforting him until we could cool him sufficiently for the thermometer to notice. It had mercifully enabled him to rest for around two hours then- but not now. The visions didn't even seem to leave with his sleep, much to our alarm. By the time that the sky outside began to brighten, nobody had had any rest, and all three of us were close to breaking point.

"Sweetheart, there is _nothing_ there. Whatever you're seeing is _not_ real. Please, please calm down-"

J doesn't respond, but continues to writhe and yell that 'it' is trying to hurt him. As if these episodes weren't already disturbing enough, the content of his hallucinations leaves me unsure whether Angela or Mordecai would be better equipped to aid him...

"Baby, p-please stop! You're safe, and we're here. _Nobody's_ going to hurt you," Catherine almost sobs, reaching out to rub his shoulder but deciding against it at the last minute. Touch only seems to agitate him further.

"Why won't it stop staringatme...?" his eyes whirl, his words blur into each other, and he ultimately settles for just letting out a strange hiss-whimper of discomfort through his teeth. Unexpectedly, less than ten seconds later, he lifts his tongue for the thermometer without protest, and remains mostly still and quiet as we watch the mercury climb. 104.5 degrees, and we've attempted every method of cooling we can think of.

"It's okay, Jimmy. It's o-" she tries, cutting herself off momentarily as he once again starts swinging at the air above him (forcing me to hold his wrists down against the bed), "Honey, it's _okay_! Oh, b-baby..."

Growing more desperate, I opt for a firmer approach, "JJ. _James_. This is Dad. Listen to my voice. You have a _terrible_ fever at the moment, and it's giving you nightmares (the poor thing looks _so_ frightened. I can't bring myself to hurl cold, distant logic at him whilst he's in such distress...). I know it's scary, love- I _know_ \- but I need you to calm down. You're not in any danger. You don't need to fight. Nothing will harm you on my watch, I _promise_."

My words don't seem to reach him, but he exhausts himself soon enough. Once he's barely struggling against my grip, I release his arms and place my hand against his damp forehead to hopefully anchor him in reality, "JJ, sweetheart, do you think you need a doctor?"

"No... not my blood..."

I look to Catherine, who nods vigorously.

...

"Do you remember what happened last night?"

"Angela drugged me..." J mutters, evidently far from pleased. From his general manner today, I think he might still be slightly under the influence of the medication in question.

"Angela had to _sedate_ you, thank you very much, because you were so terrified you couldn't even stop screaming to breathe. Do you remember that? Do you remember... what scared you so much?"

His expression darkens, "I was... seeing things."

"Like what?" Catherine chimes in from the kitchen.

" _Horrible_ things..." he shifts closer to me as if pleading for a cuddle, which I gladly give, "I... I don't want to talk about it..."

"Okay, okay. What _do_ you want to talk about, then?" I ask. I'd prefer to have a little more information on what exactly he saw (his words about and 'to' it at the time were... concerning, to say the least), but it's still a significant relief to hear him acknowledge that he was in fact hallucinating.

He glances towards the most recent casserole dish of donated food, which is sitting on the kitchen counter due to a complete lack of space elsewhere, "What's that? It smells _so_ good..."

"I believe that one's squirrel stew, honey," his mother answers, looking hopeful, "Would you like some?"

"Oh, yes please!" he eagerly hauls himself up into a fully sitting position in preparation. This has to be a good sign. Up until now, coaxing him to eat a few mouthfuls of _anything_ has been a chore (and we've been given more than enough options to offer...). Maybe perpetual exhaustion from lack of sleep was playing a role? It's certainly not helping my own appetite...

"He can have mine," I tell Catherine, who looks perplexed. J's brow furrows.

"You're really starting to get sick now, aren't you?"

The constant head pressure and general sense of fragility have been worsening, now that he mentions it, but I wouldn't describe myself as 'sick' yet. What I'm feeling is probably a delayed reaction to the shock of having nearly lost my boy, but I can't tell him that without inflicting untold guilt and/or worry on him, "Me? J, I'm fine. I don't feel ill, I promise. It's just... I didn't sleep very well at all."

"Stop it. Stop making excuses. You _are_ sick. You don't even feel cold any more."

That stops Catherine in her tracks.

"So... you must be as warm as me, right...? Which would make you..." he contorts his face, pretending to calculate something, " _Sick_. Really, _really_ sick..."

Catherine marches over and silently presents the rinsed thermometer to me, fresh worry in her eyes. This is precisely what I didn't want to happen, but since they insist, I oblige and insert it into my own mouth.

  1. _Excellent_.



**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading! 
> 
> The content of this chapter has no real basis in canon New Plague lore, but does draw heavily from my own experiences of vivid and frightening fever dreams (I was much younger than JJ, but allegedly I once burst into tears in fear and attempted to attack my mum for the horrific act of wiping my forehead with a flannel). For my fellow non-Americans, 104.5 degrees F is just over 40 degrees C, and 102 is close to 39.
> 
> Another little thing to note, because I didn't really introduce his character very much in this suffer-a-thon: JJ is all but vegetarian when he has a choice, so craving squirrel stew is supposed to be wildly OOC. Just reading that in an author's note prooobably didn't have the same impact, but oh well.


	8. Chapter 8

James:

This time last week, my son lay unconscious as his body surrendered to the relentless onslaught of New Plague and allowed him to drown in his own blood. This time last week, he seemed so close to death that I resorted to manually pumping his heart in one last desperate attempt to keep him here. This time last week, I... I truly thought that we had lost him.

Today, he is curled up on the couch next to me, as calm as ever after the puzzling revelation that I am _not_ infected with the same evil that continues to invade his sleep and gnaw at his bones. His chest rises and falls steadily underneath my hand (and breathing in synchronisation with him no longer leaves me uncomfortably breathless), his head has gradually fallen back against his will, his eyelids flutter closed again- and he finally, _finally_ drops his book onto his face.

"Wha-?" unsurprisingly, the impact jolts him awake. He grabs the offending book, slamming it shut in the process, and glares up at me as if he thinks _I_ did it.

"Get some sleep," I try not to laugh at his predicament, but I just can't help myself.

"But I'm reading it..."

"Reading what?"

"Uh..." he flips his book open again, his arms clearly straining under its weight. I try to keep my face blank, but it hurts to see that his once abundant strength has been sapped to that extent... "Fish... animals."

"JJ, I'm not joking. You _need_ to let your body rest. You won't be able to heal if-"

He appears to intensify his glare, " _You_ need to rest too. And... I feel much better now. I really do."

So far, his recovery has been relatively rapid. If I was seeing him for the first time now, I would assume that he had simply caught the flu and fallen down the stairs (to explain his frankly _horrific_ bruises...). It's hard to imagine that he's still nowhere close to healthy now that he can remain conscious for hours at a time, walk around (with help), eat a little, read... but it's equally hard to imagine him navigating the stairs without difficulty, or sleeping soundly at night, or truly laughing, or _going outside_.

"I'm sure you do, but you're not 'well' by any means, and you know it. JJ... do you understand that you almost _died,_ sweetheart?"

"Yeah," he nods slowly, "I remember... sort of hearing people say I wasn't _breathing_ , and I didn't have oxygen, and... Dad, _did_ I die...?"

It sounds like he is remembering one of the many attempts to coax him to breathe without the ventilator. Despite Angela's warnings, I wouldn't have imagined that he could hear at that point in a million years...

"Oh, son... you stopped breathing for a while, yes. But the machine was giving you oxygen. You were okay. Your body just... needed a rest, really," the darkest aspects of the full story can wait, I decide. He doesn't need any of that bouncing around his head at the moment, "Did you hear anything else like that?"

"N-No, not really. I only heard... the beep thing, and 'J, you need to breathe, please breathe'. B-But I just _c-c-couldn't_..."

" _Sweetheart_..." my eyes also fill as he recites what were probably my own words back to me, then promptly bursts into tears. He must have been _terrified_ to hear how distraught and panicked I was, and he shouldn't have to grapple with his own mortality at the age of fifteen in the first place. My soul aches for the poor boy's lost childhood as I pat his back. What could I possibly do or say to comfort someone who has stared death in the eyes? "I know it's awful, but... you're strong, and you were never, _never_ alone."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! :)
> 
> This is a very short chapter, I know, but I'm publishing this section alone because the next chapter takes a different direction. You'll see...


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! :)
> 
> This is going to be the last chapter of this work, even though it's not technically where the original version ends. The original ending chapter is almost completely separate in its chronology and content to the rest of this story, and served as an introduction to the sequel... which currently lies abandoned far from completion. I don't really want to tease something that won't be ready any time soon (if ever... but I promise I will try!), and in hindsight that chapter fits in better as a literal introduction to the sequel than the ending of this, so I've decided to leave New Plague as 'The JJ Suffering Extravaganza'!
> 
> (also, if anyone is interested in more of the JJ, but less of the suffering, I have something short and sweet coming soon...)

James:

As I'm sure I've mentioned, JJ is a stubborn little thing. Tenacious, one might say- or a 'tough cookie', as Ty and Angela did say. I thank God that he was given such determination, of course, since it undoubtedly contributed to his survival against all odds. But it's also the reason he now sits in church (with a surgical mask over his face to prevent him from sharing the New Plague with the congregation) after yet another difficult night. I suppose we should be grateful that he made no attempt to fast...

So far, he's received a curious mixture of comments from the others here. Those that have visited us since the harrowing incident (mostly women who have kindly volunteered to keep our house in order and our stomachs filled whilst we focus on getting J better, but also the Drebbers (who were gentle enough at first, but struggled to keep their morbid interest concealed after Angela casually described how she had to suck the blood out of his lungs...), Jeremiah, Jude, Matthew, Bishop Mordecai, and- naturally- our relatives) have been telling him how well he looks, but others have gasped at the mere sight of him and suggested that he should be at home, or even still in the clinic. If he was someone else's child, I would be firmly in the latter group. A hint of colour is gradually returning to his face, I admit, but he's still so, so pale...

Of course, a slow and rocky recovery is to be expected after such a serious illness, I remind myself. But now isn't the time to be thinking about that. JJ _will_ recover in time, because he is _alive_ , and I'm here to testify that that's only the case thanks to the intervention of the Spirit.

"This is probably going to get a little emotional," I force one hard chuckle, then clutch the microphone and wait for the right words to come to me, "I... I'd like to thank everyone who has supported us. Everyone who has prayed, fasted, visited us, taken care of JJ in some way... all of you, _thank you_. JJ is getting stronger by the day. He even felt well enough to pay you a visit today (I gesture to him, upon which he waves to reveal his location- not that he and Catherine are difficult to spot seated separately from the main congregation, far in the corner of the room. The sickening bruises on his arms elicit muttering and a few stifled gasps)! But... after what he went through, he should- no. He... technically speaking, we should be here right now to bury him (Jeremiah opens his mouth, probably to either object to my bluntness or make the point that I'm about to, but fortunately he decides to leave it and let me continue). Last Saturday evening, he stopped breathing in his sleep. He was alone, and we had no reason to suspect that he was anything more than mildly ill. We... we would have gone up to bed to find him dead..."

Catherine is now holding him so tightly you'd think that he would float away if she let go, the first tear of presumably many to come streaming down her powdered cheek. Time to change my focus, I think...

" _But_ that was not the will of the Lord. As JJ lay sleeping, the need to check on him _quickly_ was made very apparent to me by the Spirit. I..." flashes of what happened to him and awful predictions of what could have been flood my brain, blocking out the words I'd had ready. I can almost taste the blood again, watch it gushing out of his discoloured mouth, feel his cheeks puffing out like a chipmunk's- and for a heart-shredding second imagine how the boy would laugh at how silly he must have looked- desperately try to hear some fragment of his voice in his involuntary 'breaths' over the cacophany of machines... until they fall silent one by one, save for one constant beeeeeep-

No, no. That's not what happened, and I won't allow it to happen to even this fictional version of JJ in my vision. He did _not_ die. He _will_ not die. He is sitting right over there listening to me talk, and watching his dad freeze up in terror like this isn't going to do his strained little heart any good. _Control yourself, James_.

"Without... without that intervention... my son would not be alive today."

Feeling the expectant gaze of just about everybody I know upon me, I launch into a more typical testimony, but my mind and eyes do not wander from my son. As time goes on, he progresses from sitting up straight with minimal support and appearing attentive to leaning against Catherine and clearly fighting to remain conscious- a battle that he loses mere moments before I return to my seat.

As soon as I arrive, I shake him awake as subtly as possible, "Sweetheart, are you alright?"

"Huh?" for a second, he doesn't seem to know where he is, "Oh... I'm fine, yeah..."

His mother gives me a look that says 'He's not'.

"Do you need to lie down?" I whisper, realising that his current shade of _white_ cannot be healthy at all. He doesn't reply verbally, but snuggles down further into Catherine's shoulder. I know deep down that this shouldn't be too alarming in and of itself- his entire body has been ravaged by a merciless infection, so of course he's going to feel utterly miserable- but with the details of his suffering fresh in my mind, I can barely suppress the urge to panic.

"Lie down, honey," she urges, guiding his body down and positioning him across both of our laps, "He was ready to faint a minute ago. He's _not_ strong enough to be out. You should never have even suggested-"

"My head hurts so much..." J whines, tightly scrunching up his eyes as if to make the world go away, "I'm s-sorry, but... I need to sleep... _now_..."

Catherine:

"Mooooom..." JJ moans pitifully, his rehearsed-to-perfection 'sick baby' voice thick with sleep.

"Jimmy? What's wrong?"

He's been allowing me to call him by that nickname all night- probably only because he doesn't have the strength to protest, mind you.

"I need you, Mom..."

"Aw, sweetie, I'm here. What do you need?" I question, trying to keep the concern out of my voice. He hasn't been himself at all since his little episode in church yesterday, and it's doubly frightening to see him slide downhill when I know what lies at the bottom of the slope.

"Where's Dad?" his blood-speckled eyes flit around the front room in alarm. He's been so worried for his dad, poor little man...

"On the wall. He's okay, honey. We talked about this, remember?"

"But... he's sick..."

I sigh, "He's not _badly_ sick. He needs to keep us safe, doesn't he? And we need to keep _you_ nice and cool..."

With that, I show the thermometer to him, and he whimpers slightly, but obediently opens his mouth nonetheless.

The line eventually settles just above 103. He _is_ getting better again, I try in vain to convince myself. But if that truly is the case, then why doesn't he seem any more lucid?

James:

I have never cherished wall duty, but this week has been a particular chore so far, to say the least. Nobody wants to stand too close to the housemate of a New Plague sufferer (completely understandable, of course), so I have been stationed alone _every_ day- not to mention that things on the outskirts have been far from quiet. Last but not least, my son is seriously unwell, and... to be frank, Catherine clearly doesn't know how to best handle a teenager, let alone one that is sick and miserable. The very thought of leaving home each day has sparked dread.

But thoughts of what I might return home to have shifted from bringing additional dread to offering a slim glimmer of hope. On Monday, JJ was bundled up in his usual spot on the sofa. He greeted me with a faint 'I missed you' and a half-hearted hug, evidently... not quite 'with it'. By Tuesday, he seemed marginally less dazed, even though his temperature had very nearly hit _105 degrees_ that afternoon according to his mother. As everyone had come to expect, he spent that night tossing and turning as his fever spiked yet again- but, to our utter surprise, the dramatic nightmares failed to make their appearance.

And it showed. For the first time since that fateful day, I awoke to find J seated at the kitchen table, already washed and dressed (in fresh pyjamas) and _devouring_ scrambled Deathclaw egg and Cram at an incredible rate! I tried to keep the full extent of my relief at this scene under wraps so as not to alarm him, but I caught Catherine brushing away tears on more than one occasion as she fought to keep up with his new ravenous appetite.

As much as I want to be optimistic, I am still a little apprehensive of what state I will find JJ in once I take a few more steps and enter the house. My recent research has revealed that New Plague survivors before the Great War could expect to be ill for months on end, so it seems far too good to be true that he has shaken it off in less than two weeks. A decline now will be devastating for the morale of everyone involved...

With some trepidation, I push open the front door. The sofa is empty, save for the blanket that has recently become J's. I hear some commotion from the direction of the kitchen, presumably as the current occupants hear me arriving.

"Hi, honey!" Catherine calls out.

"Welcome home, Dad," JJ chimes in. I expect him to be sitting down at the table again, but then he appears in the living room doorway. Oh, he looks... _wonderful_. Granted, his head is drooping a little, his shoulders are unnaturally tense, he is breathing too heavily for me to truly feel at ease (assuming that he hasn't been doing much of anything physically, that is), and I'm sure that that T-shirt wasn't always that loose on him, but he somehow looks much stronger and healthier in spite of these issues. All that food must have done him the world of good!

"Hello, young man. Perking up, are we?"

"I think so, yeah..." he smiles- g _enuinely_ smiles- and his beautiful eyes light up as he leans in for a hug. Eyes that were once disturbingly dull and vacant even under the beam of Angela's flashlight and the glare of the clinic lights, then so glassy and red that I was more shocked to discover that his tears were _not_ bloodstained than I would have been had the opposite proved true, are now bright and sparkling with vitality once more.

That sight brings a wave of unexpected assurance. JJ has a long road ahead of him, no doubt, yet I am inexplicably certain that the internal battle is over, and _he has won_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Random additional info:
> 
> I researched in far more depth than proved necessary for the short segment in the church, and still have a lot of the tangential information I gained floating around my head, so I'll give a tiny bit more background here.
> 
> This church service is what's called a fast and testimony meeting, which involves the members of the congregation fasting for two meals and donating the cost of that food to the church, and also a few members sharing their 'testimony' of how they know that their beliefs are true and the impact God has had on their life (for the record, James's attempt at sharing a testimony is deliberately not a great example, but I think we can cut him some slack in the circumstances). I believe that the real-world version only takes place on certain set Sundays, but for various worldbuilding reasons, my version takes place every week except for special occasions. As you can probably tell, I didn't go for much real-world accuracy for the service itself, because my New Canaanites' beliefs have evolved so much over 200 years that they would be almost unrecognisable to the LDS of today. That said, if I happen to have goofed on any of the parts that are lifted from the real deal, please let me know!
> 
> -
> 
> To all of my readers, I am so grateful that you gave me, my characters and my story a chance! I hope you... well, 'enjoyed' might not be the word, but at least that you found my writing interesting. A double thank you to everyone who left kudos, commented, and last but not least provided the encouragement needed for me to post this fic in the first place!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Old Plague](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27083785) by [chaosintheavenue](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chaosintheavenue/pseuds/chaosintheavenue)




End file.
